Final Sacrifice
by Shipwright's Trick
Summary: Boromir's last battle and its aftermath, from his point of view. Character death, quite obviously.


Author's Note: I had a little trouble discerning some of the lines and actions in this scene, so if I botched, please tell me so I can fix it. Thanks!

Thoughts are in italics. I think I owe some author/story for Boromir's eyes after he's pierced with the second arrow (and possibly the following apparition, too-) but I can't remember (or find) the story or the author for the life of me! I'm sorry, whoever you are…

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Clang!An orc collapses to the ground, courtesy of a rock thrown by Merry. I cut his throat while he is still semi-conscious. _If this is what the little ones can do in battle, what kind of games do they play?_

I hear more clangs to my right and left as I slice through orc after orc in a desperate battle to protect Merry and Pippin until help arrives. I blew my horn in a call for aid but a few minutes ago, but already the fight seems to stretch into eternity.

I chop an orc's head off and stand still, gasping. For a second, there is a respite from the constantly attacking foes. I turn quickly in a search for my next opponent, my eyes taking in the dark figure of an orc with a bow as I spin. But I do not pause, for I sense another orc coming up behind me.

This new orc is not a very good swordsman; with two blows of my sword, I batter his shield from his hands, and with my third, I run him through. He crumples quickly to the ground, but as I turn to look for my next foe, I hear a whistle, and less than a second later, something strikes me in the chest, propelling itself deep into my flesh.

I grunt in shock and pain and stagger backwards, gasping, then slowly fall to my knees. I can feel the hot pain radiating out from my chest, centering itself just above my heart. _I have been shot!_ From somewhere up ahead, I hear an orc growl, reveling in my defeat. He knows me not, though. I am not so easily reckoned with.

With a roar of pain and defiance, I push myself back up with my sword, beheading an orc, running one through, and beginning to trade blows with another. I can feel myself getting weaker from my wound already, but be damned if I will go down without a fight and leave the little ones to pain and death at the hands of these vile creatures.

I turn to look for my next opponent, my hair swirling distractingly about my head as I do so. I have no time to react as I hear another deadly whistle and am struck by another black-feathered arrow, this time in my belly. I let out a hoarse shriek of pain and stumble backwards, then fall to my knees, staggering to keep myself from falling over and driving the arrows even deeper into my body.

I dimly hear the archer-orc give a snarl of hatred and satisfaction as I fight to raise my hanging head and look at the little ones. Almost directly in front of me, Merry and Pippin stare, aghast, at the arrows protruding from my chest and stomach. Merry's hand is poised to throw another rock, but his eyes are wide and his mouth is open, and I can tell that all thoughts of fighting are forgotten in shock and concern for me.

_I am not worthy of your anxiety-do you know what I have done?_ I want to say, but right now I am more than preoccupied with the pain searing from my chest and stomach wounds.

I look into the eyes of the hobbits for a moment, gasping for breath around a strange hitch in my throat, begging with my eyes for forgiveness. For what, they know not- but I have no doubt that they soon will. It does not seem likely, given my current state, that I will be present when they discover my betrayal of the Fellowship, and I cannot help but feel slightly grateful for that. They should not have to look at the man who tried to betray their friend and relative. For a moment, their separate faces blur and become one, and Frodo stares sorrowfully down at me where I kneel in the dirt. _I am sorry, Frodo,_ I think to the apparition.

From somewhere deep within me I find strength to continue the fight. In a motion that is not entirely voluntary, I pivot on my knees with another cry of defiance and pain and swing my sword around, piercing a heavy-set orc who thought to sneak up behind me in the chest and sending him clattering to the ground. _My sword feels so heavy-_ I think, as I manage to stand, knock another orc to the ground, and stab my weapon's sharp point through his chest.

In a jerk of desperate strength, I draw the sword from the orc's body in time to parry another orc's blow; my arm is knocked back as I block his advance, but I manage to cleave his head open as I give voice to another scream. My strength is running out fast...I do not have much time left.

I pause for a second to draw a labored breath, but before I can resume the fight, another arrow strikes me, this time between the first and second. _I cannot take any more._ My head snaps back with the force of this latest blow and I fall to my knees again, unable to keep upright any longer. I can tell that there will be no getting up this time, no painful struggle onward. This is the end. I am spent.

I bend over slightly, close my eyes, and gasp for more air. I know that will not help me now, but it is all I can do. Through my pain, I can dimly hear Merry and Pippin screaming shrilly at the orcs, and their feet pounding past me as they charge at their enemies, armed with nothing but a few rocks and what passes as swords for them, although to me- and the orcs- they are merely large daggers.

_How brave of them,_ I think dully. _How utterly brave and selfless of them. And I do not deserve it. I do not deserve any of it._

"Boromir!" I hear Merry call shrilly, his voice soon joined by Pippin's. "Boromir!" The calls are growing fainter and fainter, and I guess that the orcs have carried them off, perhaps suspecting them of possessing the One Ring.

_I am sorry, little ones, _I think hazily. _I cannot help you anymore. It is too late for you. It is too late for me. _

I open my eyes as the remaining orcs thunder past me after Merry and Pippin's captors. I am still wheezing for breath around the hitch in my throat, doing my best not to cough. Coughing will only make the pain worse.

I blink and see a pair of legs standing in front of me. For a moment, I sustain a brief hope that Aragorn or another ally has found me, but then I realize that it would not matter even if they had. I am dying; there is no changing that.

Perhaps others would stand silently and watch me gasp my life out, but I doubt the other members of the Fellowship would, even if they knew what I had done to Frodo. I am sure they would not deny comfort to a dying man merely because he was tempted by something inherently evil; I am of the opinion that they are far too noble and kind to do such a thing, although I certainly would not blame them if they did. I do not deserve the consolations of an orc after what I tried to do to Frodo.

However, my faint hopes are immediately dashed as I raise my head farther, looking eye-to-eye with whoever stands in front of me. It is an orc with a bow and arrow, the same orc who has driven three arrows into me already.

The foul beast lets out a growl of derision and hatred and draws his weapon, aiming it directly between my eyes. I no longer care; at this point I almost welcome death.

_I wish I could have seen the White City one more time before I- and it- fell,_ I think dazedly, all vestiges of hope draining from me even as my life did the same.

I stare my ruin in the eyes, waiting for the fatal final arrow to spring from the orc's bow and kill me. However, just before the arrow seems ready to be released, a solid, tall something with dark hair-_Aragorn! _a corner of my befuddled mind realizes_-_ flies out of nowhere and crashes into the orc with a grunt. The orc lets loose his arrow, but it flies wide as attacker and attacked roll away from me.

My eyes flutter, trying to close, and I topple backwards onto the hard ground, what was left of my strength deserting me as I dimly follow the progress of Aragorn's fight with my ears: several thuds, clangs of sword against sword, a few grunts and growls from Aragorn and orc alike, and a last, larger thud as a body falls to the ground. I do not think I can rouse the strength to lever myself up on one elbow and check to see who survived, but it does not matter so much anymore. While it would certainly be better for the world if Aragorn survived rather than the orc, no matter who won the confrontation, I will die soon. It is just a matter of whether I do so with the comfort of a friend, or the hatred of an enemy.

I hear footsteps running towards me and open my eyes to see Aragorn jump the bodies of the orcs that I have slain, which lie all around me, and drop to his knees besides me.

"They took the little ones," I blurt as I reach up to clasp his shoulder with one hand. I gasp for breath, my whole body rocking back and forth as I struggle for air.

"Lay still," Aragorn says to me quietly, but I take no heed of him.

"Frodo," I say, my voice shaking to match the rest of my dying body. "Where is Frodo?"

Aragorn looks down at my wounds, then back at my face. "I let Frodo go," he whispers, so quietly that in my agitated state I can hardly hear him.

"Then you did what I could not," I grind out, then stop and catch my breath.

"I tried to take the Ring from him," I confess at last, averting my eyes in shame, waiting for the man who kneels by my side to recoil in righteous disgust and leave me here to die. To my surprise, Aragorn disregards this admittance with a small shake of his head, otherwise not moving at all.

"The Ring is beyond our reach now," he tells me.

"Forgive me," I continue, still gasping for more air. "I did not see."

I pause for breath, then persist. "I have failed you."

Before the sentence is even fully out of my mouth, Aragorn is denying it.

"No," he tells me, his quiet voice firm. "No, Boromir. You fought bravely." Aragorn looks down at my wounds again in a futile attempt to hide the tears I can see gathering in his eyes. "I must cut your armor," he tells me, evidently still prepared to save my life despite my betrayal of Frodo. Despite the fact that I am clearly dying. _Aragorn, words fail me to describe you._

"Leave it," I pant, staying Aragorn's hand with mine as he starts to dismember my breastplate. "It is over. The world of men will fall…and all will come to darkness… and my city to ruin-" I stop here, fighting for breath. I feel tears pricking the corners of my eyes as I think of Minas Tirith overrun with orcs and fell beasts.

Aragorn takes my arm with his hands and holds it to his shoulder in a bracing gesture. My breathing calms as I feel the strength from his comforting grasp running down my arm and into me. Aragorn looks at me again, and for the first time I see the majesty of a king shining from his deep grey eyes.

"I do not know what strength is in my blood," he tells me, his voice serious. "But I swear to you I will not let the White City fall…"

I look at him as he pauses, gripping my trembling hand with strength I will never again have.

"…nor our people fail," he finishes, his voice rough with grief, determination, defiance…

"Our people," I half-whisper. Aragorn nods.

"Our people!" I repeat, louder this time. Aragorn nods even more emphatically. I shudder and gasp as I drop the arm that Aragorn does not clasp to the ground and look towards my sword, which I believe I must have dropped as I was pierced with the final arrow.

My breath is even more laborious now, and my wounds throb more with every heart beat. A gray mist begins to creep into my vision, telling me that the end is very near.

Aragorn takes the hilt of my sword, then gently places it in my hand. I summon the last bit of my strength from reserves I never knew I had and pull my now monstrously heavy weapon onto my chest. Behind Aragorn, I faintly see Legolas appear among the trees, but I care not. I have eyes only for the man who leans over me.

"I would have followed you, my brother," I tell him fiercely, struggling to fill my leaden lungs just a few more times. "My captain." I add, looking straight into Aragorn's glistening grey eyes. _Tears._

"My King." I finish, finally acknowledging Aragorn as the true King of Gondor, Isildur's rightful heir. I know in my heart that he will rule Gondor far better than I ever could have. I smile at him through the pain, and see the sad smile he gives me in return before I lose my vision completely and drift slowly into the sleep from which I know I will never awaken...

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Another Author's Note: Ah, I actually got a little teary-eyed as I wrote this. And yet again I say unto thee: poor Boromir. : (

Now I'm going to wax philosophic and emotional on you, so feel free to skip this part. : )

As I was writing this, I realized for myself just how great Aragorn is during this scene; this man knows that Boromir betrayed Frodo and tried to take the Ring, yet is still offering comfort to Boromir. Aragorn understands this feeling of temptation, having probably felt this corruption himself (he's only human, after all), and knows that Boromir is not to blame. He refuses to admit that Boromir will certainly die, and wants to try to save his life despite the fact that there is obviously no hope for Boromir.

Aragorn looks at Boromir, dying in the dirt, and doesn't see a corrupted and proud man who tried to take the Ring and thus betrayed Frodo; he sees a friend and comrade-in-arms, the person taught the hobbits how to fight not long ago, and, having been tackled by Merry and Pippin, defended himself with laughter. He sees the man who essentially gave his life to protect two of those same hobbits and kept fighting despite having been shot three times and being faced with huge odds. He must know that if Boromir had succeeded in taking the Ring, Middle Earth would have fallen into darkness almost immediately, and yet still does not hold Boromir to blame. No, instead Aragorn swears to Boromir that he will protect Minas Tirith and braces him as much as he can. And when Boromir dies, Aragorn kisses him on the forehead, saying, "Be at peace, son of Gondor."

If we had been in Aragorn's place, with the knowledge that Boromir would have thrown Middle Earth into darkness if he had taken the Ring, would we have had the strength to forgive him for his terrible transgression, comfort him as best as possible in his dying moments, and then kiss his cooling body on the forehead? I'm sure we'd all like to think so, but would we? We won't ever know for sure. Somehow, I don't think we really want to know- if we were tested and found wanting, what would that do to us?

And, ah, man, I don't even think I can say anything about Boromir...be at peace, son of Gondor.


End file.
